


Philosophical Differences

by nagi_schwarz



Series: Comment Fic 2016 [73]
Category: Stargate Atlantis, Stargate SG-1
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Civil War AU, Homophobia, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-21
Updated: 2016-09-21
Packaged: 2018-08-16 10:53:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8099383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagi_schwarz/pseuds/nagi_schwarz
Summary: Written for the comment_fic prompt: "Any, Any m/m, Civil War AU."Canadian scientist Rodney McKay becomes a Union soldier and runs into Rebel soldier John Sheppard in the woods. Kisses and hand-holding and defecting ensue.





	

Rodney tore through the undergrowth, heart pounding. He had to find Teyla before the Rebel patrol did. She was supposed to report in to camp two days ago, but there had been no word. Colonel O'Neill was sure that Teyla had been captured, but she couldn't have been. She was too good for that. Rodney shuddered to think what would happen to Teyla, an mulatto, if Rebel soldiers saw past her disguise, realized she wasn't really a messenger boy.  
  
Rodney wasn't a soldier by trade, wasn't even American, was Canadian, had been studying at a college in Boston when the war broke out. What had started as a casual suggestion to his classmate Evan - formerly an art major, now Major Lorne - about how to increase the efficiency of a cannon had turned into him wearing a blue uniform and carrying a rifle.  
  
And now he was running through the woods, trying to pick up Teyla's trail. She had the plans for the new gun ships, and Rodney needed them if his engineers wanted any hope in hell of getting one built in time.  
  
Rodney paused, fumbled his map and compass out of his satchel, spun around to orient himself.  
  
A rifle report split the air.  
  
Fire exploded in Rodney's shoulder. He hit the ground with a cry, and someone yelled, "Got him!"  
  
"Find him, bring him back alive," someone else ordered. "Colonel Sumner wants to make an example of him."  
  
Rodney lay on his back, dazed and whimpering in pain. No. He had to move. He recognized those Southern drawls. Rebels. They were looking for him. They must have captured Teyla and tortured her into telling them about him. He tried to push himself up, but agony bloomed in his right shoulder once more. Dammit. He was right-handed.  
  
He tried to roll onto his left side, but that was no good, because then his left hand was trapped under him, and he needed it to push himself up.  
  
A hand closed over his mouth. Rodney screamed behind it.  
  
"No, shush, please."  
  
Rodney stared up at the gray-uniformed soldier in horror. The man was young, a couple of years younger than Rodney. He had dark hair and dark eyes, and blood was trickling down his forehead from beneath his gray cap.  
  
"I can't let them find me." The man had a revolver in one hand, and he cast a wild look about. He leaned in and breathed in Rodney's ear. "I need to bind up your wound so they can't follow a blood trail. Stay quiet."  
  
The man eased his hand off of Rodney's mouth, then rooted around in his satchel. He bound up Rodney's shoulder with efficiency and skill that spoke of much practice, and then he helped Rodney to his feet.  
  
"This way," the Rebel soldier said. He turned again, scanned the forest around them. He had curiously pointy ears, like an elf. Rodney's sister Jeannie would have called him a changeling. He was as beautiful as fae.  
  
And obviously Rodney was in a lot of pain, because his thoughts were madness.  
  
But the Rebel soldier kept an arm around Rodney, let Rodney lean on him, and together they hobbled through the woods. Rodney had no idea where he was going, had lost his map and compass in the shooting earlier, but the Rebel seemed to know where he was going, because they skirted around a wide old oak and the Rebel muttered, "There it is."  
  
_There_ was a hillside covered with greenery. The Rebel helped Rodney hobble to it, and then he reached out and reached _in_ to the greenery - and swept it aside like a curtain.  
  
It was a cave.  
  
“We can bunk down here and wait till they pass,” the Rebel said. He helped ease Rodney down onto the dirt floor, and then he sat down beside him. He let the greenery fall back into place, so the cave was terribly dim. He arranged the greenery just so so he could peek out without disturbing it, and then he sank back against the wall, fished in his satchel for some food.  
  
“Why did you save me?” Rodney asked.  
  
“Two men will confuse the hounds, if they break them out,” the Rebel said. “How’s your shoulder feel?”  
  
“Like I’ve been shot,” Rodney snapped.

“Want me to take another look at it? I’m no sawbones, but -”  
  
“If you would let me go, I can get back to my camp and get proper medical attention,” Rodney said.  
  
The Rebel gnawed on some dried meat. “Can’t let you go till they pass us by. Sumner’s men are good soldiers, but not the brightest. They won’t think to double back.”  
  
Rodney straightened up. “And if I alert them to our presence?”  
  
“They’ll kill us both.” The Rebel’s eyes gleamed in the darkness. “I’m the best chance you have of surviving.”  
  
“I won’t talk,” Rodney said.  
  
“About what?” the Rebel asked, amused.  
  
“About our plans.”  
  
“Wasn’t about to ask.”  
  
“Oh.” Rodney peered at the Rebel some more. It was hard to make out much in the dimness. Judging by the insignias on his uniform, he was also a major. “Why are Sumner’s men after you?”  
  
“Philosophical disagreement,” the Rebel said flatly.  
  
“Pretty violent disagreement,” Rodney observed.  
  
The Rebel said nothing.  
  
“Are you looking to defect?” Rodney asked, after the silence got long and awkward.  
  
The Rebel huffed. “No.”  
  
“What about -”  
  
“Stay quiet, if that’s possible for you. Till the searchers past.”  
  
“What happens after that?”  
  
“I run,” the Rebel said.  
  
“What about me?” Rodney protested.  
  
The Rebel shrugged. “You can keep doing whatever you were doing.”  
  
Teyla. Rodney had to get to Teyla. He struggled to his feet. “No, I can’t wait. I have to -”  
  
The Rebel was on his feet in an instant. He caught Rodney’s good shoulder and tugged him back around. “No, you can’t go out there.”  
  
“Are you going to stop me?” Rodney demanded. “Are you going to kill me after all?” He started for the green curtain.  
  
The Rebel sighed. “No. Please -”  
  
Rodney reached for the curtain of green. The Rebel spun him around, pinned him against the wall. Rodney cried out when his shoulder hit the wall, and the Rebel dove at him, clamped his hand over Rodney’s mouth once more.  
  
“Quiet!”  
  
Rodney thought he could hear voices in the distance. He struggled, trying to ignore the blazing pain in his shoulder. The Rebel leaned in closer, and Rodney closed his eyes, ready for the bullet in his heart, the knife between his ribs, or -  
  
The Rebel kissed him. The lips on Rodney’s were soft, warm. Gentle.  
  
Rodney sagged back against the wall. He’d missed this, had avoided the camp girls like the plague - and some of them were plagued - and he’d endured jokes from the other soldiers about how he was a priest, a Canadian, a puritan, something.  
  
Evan had never made fun of him. Evan had known and had said nothing.  
  
But Rodney had missed this, the weight of another man against him, the rasp of stubble on his skin, broad, strong hands at his hips.  
  
The Rebel pulled back, and his eyes were wide.  
  
“Stay quiet, please,” he breathed.  
  
Rodney nodded breathlessly, and they stayed there, pressed against each other, listening to the voices grow louder, louder, and then quieter, quieter as the soldiers passed on.  
  
“Is it safe?” Rodney asked.  
  
The Rebel shook his head. “No. Give it fifteen more minutes. Markham’s terribly slow.”  
  
Sure enough, about ten minutes later, they heard huffing and puffing. “Stackhouse, Dorsey, wait for me!”  
  
After another five minutes, the Rebel stepped back, and Rodney immediately missed the warm press of him, his leanness beneath his uniform.  
  
“So,” Rodney said. “Philosophical differences?”  
  
“They shot Mitchell as soon as they caught us,” the Rebel said quietly. “I got away clean.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I wasn’t even in love with him, but he was nice. From Tennessee. Farm boy. Family owned a decent-sized farm outside Chattanooga. Nothing like any of the Sheppard plantations, but -” He fell silent. “I didn’t mean to be indecent with you, but I wanted you to stay quiet, and I didn’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to hurt anyone. But I’m the oldest son and Father was going to send a slave to fight in my place and -”  
  
“If you noticed,” Rodney said quietly, “I kissed you back.”  
  
The Rebel lifted his head, and the ghost of a smile curved his lips. “Yes, you did.”  
  
“Help me with my mission,” Rodney said, “and I’ll get you a new uniform.”  
  
The Rebel reached out, curled his fingers through Rodney’s. “My name is John.”


End file.
